


It’s Not Easy Starting Over

by ElderBerryBeret



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, Rehab, non consensual outing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22806724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElderBerryBeret/pseuds/ElderBerryBeret
Summary: Dealing with coming out, doing the twelve steps, sitting through lots of therapy, loving your straight, married best friend and finding out if it is possible to make up for 27 lost years.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 24
Kudos: 222





	It’s Not Easy Starting Over

Richie left Derry a week after the house on Neibolt Street collapsed. Eddie was still in the hospital. Bill, Ben and Bev had already left. Bill to return to his wife and the set in England, Ben and Bev together in Ben’s rental car. Richie wondered if they’d started to forget again. 

Richie didn’t want to leave. It wasn’t Derry. The whole place could burn to the ground as far as he was concerned. He’d pour the gasoline and light the match himself, if he thought he’d get away with it. 

It was Eddie. He didn’t want to leave Eddie. It took an unprecedented amount of self awareness (not Richie’s forte on a good day, and these were not good days) to admit that to himself. He couldn’t bear the possibility that he might forget Eddie again.

***

He had spoken to his manager twice since he’d walked off stage. The first call had been made by Richie. He’d been standing outside the hospital, chain smoking. Eddie had been in the hospital for 24 hours, and his condition was stable. Richie could finally breathe. 

“Steve, it’s me.”

“Rich?” Richie could hear the echo of traffic in the background and assumed he was on handsfree. Steve didn’t give him the chance to reply. “Where the fuck are you and why are you calling me on a new number?”

Richie’s original phone was waterlogged, smashed and splattered with Eddie’s blood. He did not think these details would ease the conversation he was trying to have. “I’m in Maine. Derry, my hometown. Minor crisis. Long story short, I need a lawyer. Can you get someone for me?”

“What the fuck Rich? What the hell is going on? Have you seen what the press have been saying? Are you trying to finish off your career? And why the fuck do you need a fucking lawyer? What did you do? If you’re using again, Rich, I swear to God...”

“I killed a man with an axe, Steve.” That stalled Steve’s invective. Richie ploughed on, tossing aside this cigarette and fighting the urge to light another. “I’m not kidding. No drugs involved. I’m not being charged with anything - totally self-defence - and I haven’t been arrested, but I need to speak to the police, and I’d like a decent lawyer.”

“Leave it with me.” Steve was probably the only person in the world who Richie could rely on to step up in a crisis of his own making. 

“Thanks”. 

Richie lit another cigarette, leaning back against the brick wall of the hospital, and wondered (not for the first time) what the fuck he was supposed to do next. 

***

The second time they spoke, Steve called Richie. Or, to be completely honest (and what is Richie after the events of the last few weeks but totally and 100 per cent honest with himself?), Richie finally answered one of Steve’s calls. In the interim, Richie had been questioned by the police, a file was being prepared for the DA, but Richie’s lawyer thought an indictment was unlikely in the circumstances. Circumstances being, of course, that Richie had clobbered an escaped, homicidal nut job while he was intent on killing one of Richie’s childhood friends.

“You fucking asshole” was Steve’s opening, which was fair, as far as Richie could tell. 

“Hey Steve.” Richie was outside the hospital again. 

“You’ve got to get back here Rich. No, don’t even start with the fucking excuses. I don’t want to hear anything out of your fucking mouth that’s not ‘yes, Steve, I’ll be on the next flight’. You’ve got no idea how much damage control I’ve been doing. No fucking idea. If you want to salvage anything from the wreck that is your career right now, you’ll wrap up your axe wielding trip down memory lane and get back here.”

“I need 48 hours,” was all that Richie said in response. 

Eddie’s wife - Myra, her name was Myra - had arrived from New York the day before. Richie - the new and improved, self aware and honest-with-himself Richie - could feel his heart breaking. For himself, but also for Eddie, because, holy shit, Eddie had married his mother. 

So Richie did what Richie had promised himself (and several of his professional acquaintances) that he’d never do again. He got high and he stayed high. There was no fucking handbook outlining healthy coping mechanisms for those times when you have to face your childhood nightmares again after twenty seven years of supernatural memory repression. 

He was high when he went back to the Kissing Bridge and freshly etched R + E into the already indented wood. A small public acknowledgement of feelings that he could not force out of his throat. Eddie was married - to a woman - and Richie’s feelings were undoubtedly as unrequited as they had been in eighth grade. The carving made Richie feel exposed and very, very small and he remembered a similar, shivery feeling when he’d carved the original letters there. He snorted a line off the dashboard of his rental car before driving away. The coke made him feel invincible. Unfortunately, it was only temporary. 

He was high when he said goodbye to Mike, who was packing up his life bound for Florida. 

He was high when he said goodbye to Eddie. 

Eddie was still bed-bound. Thanks to a traumatic chest injury and copious amounts of fentanyl (to drown out Myra’s strident fussing, probably), Richie thought that Eddie was probably as high as he was. 

Richie had to wait down the hall until Myra was loudly discussing the cleaning regime (“what about the risk of MRSA? How can you be sure it’s clean? I saw someone with long sleeves!”) with the nurses station. She had banned him from Eddie’s room within five minutes of meeting him. Whatever else he thought about Myra, she was certainly a grand judge of character. 

Richie put his head round the door. “Hey Eds”. 

“Don’t call me Eds.” Eddie mumbled, clearly benefitting from the pharmacy’s good stuff. 

Richie entered and sat down in the chair he’d been practically living in (excluding smoke breaks and axe murder related police interviews) until Myra showed up and banished him. Eddie looked small and pale, hooked up to iv antibiotics. He propped himself up on his elbows, to squint at Richie. 

“Where have you been?” he said.

Richie couldn’t stop himself, “Doing your mom.”

Eddie rolled his eyes but lacked the strength or clarity to make a comeback. Richie supposed an almost fatal traumatic chest injury would slow down one’s ability for verbal sparring. 

“Myra’s here.” Eddie said. “I don’t know who called her. Probably the insurance company? I didn’t know they could do that. Can they do that, Richie?”

“I guess so, Eds.”

“Anyway, every time I wake up, she’s there. I didn’t ask her to come, Richie. It feels wrong that she’s here in Derry.”

“I had to sneak in. She’s banned me from the hospital.” Eddie started to protest, but Richie stopped him. “It’s OK, I just came to let you know I’m leaving soon. I got a call from Steve, he’s my manager.” Richie removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He didn’t want to do this. He had to do this. “Apparently, the on-stage nervous breakdown and self defence axe murder are causing some PR problems. I need to go back to LA.”

“Oh,” said Eddie.

Richie nodded. More than anything, Richie wanted to tell Steve to fuck off and stay in Derry, to stay until Eddie was well. To stay long enough to work up the courage to be authentic for the first time in his adult life and tell Eddie how he felt. But what would be the point? Eddie was married. Eddie was straight. What would Eddie want with Richie, a grown man so fucked up that his entire life was built on a carefully crafted fiction. 

So the words he wanted to say were locked behind his lips in spite of the klaxon that was screaming inside his head . Tell him. This is your last chance. Tell him now. 

Richie didn’t tell him. “Sorry, Eddie Spaghetti, LA is calling. Can’t deprive the world of all this,” he gestured at his, well, everything. 

Richie hugged him awkwardly, constrained by the iv lines, and gave him a soft head noogie. “See you around, Eddie Spaghetti.” 

Eddie pushed him away. “Don’t forget me this time, asshole.” 

***

Amazingly, the good people of United allowed him to board. They even served him several alcoholic beverages, on the plane and in the lounge at Newark. Richie was happily buzzed when he staggered out of LAX. It was almost midnight. 

Steve hadn’t sent a car, probably as punishment, so Richie collapsed into the back of a cab and hated LA with the heat of a thousand suns. 

He was due in Steve’s office at 8am the next morning, and therefore needed to sober up. The food in his refrigerator was beyond salvaging, but the vodka was chilled nicely. 

****

Richie had fallen before, but this time he fell hard. 

The thing about Richie was that, at some point in the twenty seven years he was away from Derry, he’d forgotten how to be himself. Most people in the public eye would agree that their public personas were performative. Whereas Richie in person was more or less the same as he was on stage. He was all dick jokes, drinking and frat house rambling. He was aware that his life was pretty shallow. Case in point, shortly before pondering his lack of depth and poor life choices, Richie had been downing shots and was currently in the bathroom, snorting a line. He checked himself in the mirror, wiped the residue from his nose, and rejoined the party. 

He had met Steve the first day back in LA with a raging hangover, eyes shielded from the LA sun and hands trembling slightly. Steve looked pissed but didn’t call him out. They talked about the dates in Reno and how to manage the fall out from his onstage breakdown. Steve asked him about Derry, but Richie deflected and when Steve pushed, he snapped that he couldn’t talk about it right now, Steve, just give him a fucking break. 

He felt bad about blowing Steve off. He was the closest thing he had to a friend in LA. But what could Richie tell him? The idea of talking about the clown was laughable, and not in a good way. And he didn’t think he’d ever be able to speak about the Deadlights. He could talk about Stan, and Henry Bowers, and the reunion, but Steve already had the salient points about Bowers and Richie wasn’t ready to talk about Stan. Given enough time, he thought he might be able to. But not right now. He needed more time to process it all.

Mike called him later the same day. Richie was at home, staring at a blank TV screen, instead of prepping for Reno, thinking about what Steve had said about damage limitation, but too mellow (thanks to Xanax, which he got on prescription, actually Steve) to focus.

“Hey Richie, it’s me, Mike.”

“I know who you are.” Richie replied. “I just saw you yesterday.” 

“Ok, Richie. Just making sure.” Mike sounded relieved. “How are you?”

“Oh, you know, coming to terms with the shitshow of the last two weeks. It’s been comparatively short on murder for the last couple of days, so a bit dull. Been trying to figure out how to work all this new material into my tour - or do you think it would be best on a talk show? Something like ‘Richie Tozier opens up to Ellen about his high school reunion. It was a murder-riot’”

“C’mon Richie,” Mike said. “We’ve all been through it.”

“I know.” Richie replied. “I’m just not really dealing with it. Every time I shut my eyes, I see Eddie almost dying right in front of me. I feel,” Richie took a deep breath to steady his voice, which was on the verge of breaking, “I still feel his blood on me.”

“Eddie’s going to be fine, Richie. You know this.”

“I wouldn’t have left if his wife hadn’t thrown me out of the hospital.” This was close to the truth, but not quite 100 per cent. Richie would have stayed if Eddie’s wife hadn’t arrived. “Whatever. She’s a great judge of character.”

“Beep beep, Richie.” Mike sounded tired.

“Ok, Ok. Enough of my minor breakdown. What are you planning on doing next, Mikey?”

Mike started talking about his plans to travel to Florida (why Florida Mike? Are you eighty years old?), about clearing out his serial-killer loft, visiting Eddie, who was doing fine, the same as yesterday, Richie, and keeping in touch with the others. He ended with a “Talk soon.”

Richie’s large apartment felt even emptier once Mike had hung up, which really meant that Richie himself felt empty. He missed Mike. He missed the others. Most of all, he missed Eddie. At least he could admit to that.

Richie had been in relationships before. Most of them ended disastrously, in screaming fights, flying glassware (thrown at Richie, not by him) and on one occasion, with his clothes in garbage bags on the kerb. What they all had in common, apart from Richie himself, was the accusation - or perhaps it was the truth - that Richie was never authentic. He was never “all in”, as they said. With his new perspective he thought how could he be authentic, when he was constantly performing? 

All of his relationships had been with women. So there was that. There had been hook ups with men, which made Richie feel simultaneously liberated and terrified. He’d never let go of the fear that grew out of growing up in a small town in the eighties, and he’d buried that fear by adopting a douche bro persona and by dating women. Classic diversion. He supposed the reason for his fear was clearer now he remembered the names he’d been called as a child.

After Derry (Richie could only bring himself to think of it in abstract terms, which was so much easier when he wasn’t sober), pieces of the old, original Richie started to break through. This was unacceptable, Richie decided. No good would come of it.

Ultimately, the combination of the recent trauma, the unwelcome return of his crippling anxiety, too much free time (and too much money) and an overwhelming emptiness were overpowering. Richie fell hard. Cocaine to get him through his professional and social obligations (which were often one and the same in LA), and Xanax to bring him down, both mixed with bourbon, tequila and vodka. Richie knew this would not end well. He was right.

***

Steve kept hovering on his periphery, which was feeding Richie’s anxiety, but of course, the room - and the whole hotel - was non-smoking, so he flopped onto the sofa dramatically. All of his Reno shows were sold out, the sound check had gone well and all he had to do now was wait for showtime. 

“Tell me that you’ve left the mini-bar intact, at least.” Richie said. “I know you won’t let me out of your sight until the show’s over, but I could really use a drink.” He sensed Steve’s shoulders tensing. “C’mon, man, you know how I get before a show. It’s not going to do anyone any good if I vibrate out of my skin before I get on stage.”

Steve marched over to the mini-bar and opened it. Richie scrambled up over the back of the sofa to get a better view. It was stocked with water. He groaned and lay back. “This is going to be a shitty day, Steve, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“We need to talk, Rich” Steve said, sitting down opposite.

“No, nope. Not today, Steven.”

“Yes, today, Rich.” 

In that moment, Richie was reminded of his parents, and every authority figure who he’d ever driven to distraction with his inability to knuckle down and conform, with his inherent inability to be calm. If it had been anyone but Steve, he would have flounced out to get catastrophically drunk, just to make a point. Instead he rolled his eyes (very mature, Richie), spread his arms across the back of the sofa, and stayed silent.

“You don’t need to tell me what happened in Derry, but we do need to talk about what’s happened since then.” Steve looked as uncomfortable as Richie felt in that moment. “You’ve been a mess.” Steve held his hand up to quiet Richie’s “Gee thanks man.” and pressed on. “I know about the coke, and the booze is fucking obvious to everyone, Rich. You’re lucky at this point that you’ve not been splashed across TMZ or Buzzfeed the way you’ve been for the last two months. I know you’re dealing with something right now, but if you won’t tell me, you do need to talk about it to someone. I’ve seen you like this before.”

“That was five years ago. Are you ever going to let me live that down?” 

“Not when you’re reliving the entire shitshow, Rich. After the shows, I think you need to think about going back to rehab.”

“Jesus Christ, Steve. Is this a fucking intervention?”

“If that’s what you need, then yes, it is a fucking intervention.”

Richie was too sober to deal with this right now. “Can’t we do this back in LA? I’m on stage in four hours. I’ll try to talk this through with you when we’re back. I need to focus on the material right now.”

Steve stood, and clapped Richie on the shoulder. “This isn’t going away Rich. I’m not going away. You need to deal with whatever happened.” 

Richie knew Steve was right. He knew Steve had his best interests at heart. But he also knew that sobriety was filled to the brim with unpleasant thoughts and memories that he wasn’t ready to face. 

Later, as he was about to go on stage, Richie did a line or two. The show was a blur. People laughed. Richie remembered most of his punchlines, every single one feeling as fake as he was. 

***

After the last show, Richie slipped out of the stage door while the applause still rang in his ears, and before the auditorium had emptied. Steve would be waiting for him backstage, and he wasn’t in the mood to be baby-sat again. Nor was he in a fit state to meet any fans. He hailed a cab and made his escape.

He had never been to Reno before, but he knew what he was looking for. He found himself in a bar, and pressed his way through the young, rowdy crowd to get a drink. He was too old for a place like this. 

Richie didn’t care. He knew what he was here for, and he knew he’d find it. It didn’t take long. His celebrity, which he usually found oppressive, occasionally had some benefits.

The young man leaned into his space, as Richie stood with his elbows on the bar, looking towards the dance floor, and looked up at him through long dark lashes. “I know you.” 

“Do you?” Richie replied, taking a sip of his drink. He appraised the man in front of him. Mid twenties. Dark hair, blue eyes, tight pants. Good looking. Confident. 

“Yeah, you’re that comedian on Netflix.” He said. “Trashmouth.”

“That’s me.” He said, extending his hand. The young man shook it. Richie let his hand linger, and held eye contact.

“I’m Harvey,” he said. “And you can buy me a drink.” 

Richie turned back to the bar and ordered the drinks. He liked Harvey’s confidence and was flattered by the attention. He craved the attention. Everything was so buttoned down when he was sober, it had a tendency to erupt violently when he let his guard down and cocaine always obliterated his self-control. 

“I assume your girlfriend isn’t with you tonight, Trashmouth.” Harvey said, trailing his fingers down Richie’s arm and lingering on his wrists. “Don’t worry. You’re not be the first straight man to find yourself in a gay bar. Anything goes, here.”

Richie smiled, and stood up straight. He was several inches taller than Harvey, and looked down at him. “Anything?”

Harvey smiled. “Anything.” 

They finished their drinks. Harvey grabbed Richie’s hand and pulled him towards the dance floor. Richie was not a good dancer. He was too tall, too awkward, and he didn’t recognise any of the music. Richie’s self-belief at that moment overshadowed his lack of ability, and he let himself be pulled along. 

Harvey linked his arms round Richie’s neck, slotted a knee between his thighs and rolled his hips in time with the music. Richie gripped Harvey’s ass, and leaned down to kiss him. In that moment, Richie felt powerful, desirable, and wanted. He loved the flashing lights, the taste of Harvey’s lips, the feeling of his lean torso pressed hard against him and the smell of sweat and body-spray. Harvey’s hands were everywhere. Richie trailed kisses down his neck, somewhat awkwardly, given the height difference, and loved the sound of Harvey’s breath catching, as he bit lightly on his ear.

They wound up pressed together in a bathroom stall. 

Afterwards, Richie straightened his clothes, and made his way back to the bar where he kissed Harvey goodbye and left to find a cab, while struggling to remember the address of his hotel.

***

Would Richie have done it, if he’d known what would happen next? 

Probably.

It was bound to have come crashing down at some point. Richie was forty years old. He was getting tired of hiding, and tired of denying himself. He said this to Steve, at the crisis meeting in the office back in LA. There were magazines and gossip site print outs spread across Steve’s desk. Richie was plastered across them. And so was Harvey. Richie didn’t want to look, but Steve was adamant. He’d sent a file over to Richie’s apartment via courier at 6am, and had instructed the courier to ring the bell until Richie damn well answered the fucking door.

Steve was pacing and shouting at Richie and breaking off to take calls from the PR company, and Richie was slumped in an uncomfortable chair, wearing sunglasses and with a slight tremor in his hands and in his voice. For once, he didn’t know what to say.

It was embarrassing to be on the Sidebar of Shame.

It was humiliating to be publicly outed, and to lose control of his public image.

Richie was transported back to junior high. To the graffiti on his locker, to the names he’d been called, to the shame he’d lived with. It was not a good feeling.

Steve eventually ran out of rage and sat behind his desk with his head in his hands. “We’re going to have to respond to this.” He said, flicking some of the pages towards Richie, who let them flutter to the ground. One landed face up. It was a candid shot of Richie on the dance floor with his hands on Harvey’s ass.

Richie was working his way up to infuriated. He shifted in the chair. “Why is this such a big fucking deal? I’m not the first queer to be forced out of the closet by the gutter press.”

“Being gay isn’t a big fucking deal, Richie.” Steve said. He picked up his desk phone and asked his assistant to bring them both coffees. “Being photographed off your face in a gay bar in Nevada plastered all over someone half your age, when 90% of your material is about goddamn pussy, might be a problem for your career. Do you even know your own audience?”

Richie knew his audience. Fuck. 

“We can play it down.” Steve said. “Make the story about the drugs, not the sex.”

“I’m gay.“ Richie said, thinking that Steve must had been too enraged to really hear him before. “I fucked that guy in a bathroom stall because I’m sick of dating women I’m not attracted to. And I’m pissed that I don’t even get to have one-night stands with guys I do find attractive. I don’t want to play it down.”

Steve stood up again and walked round to lean on his desk right in front of Richie. Richie took off his sunglasses and looked up at him. “I’ve known you for nearly twenty years, Richie. Why haven’t I seen this before?”

“Your gaydar must be fucking defective.” Richie said.

Steve’s assistant knocked and came in with the coffee. Richie took his gratefully, hoping that the caffeine would help with his hangover. He noticed that she avoided making eye contact with him. The embarrassment was contagious. 

“I’m sorry that you couldn’t trust me with this.” Steve said, as he sat back down.

Richie flicked his sunglasses back over his eyes, stayed silent and drank his latte. Steve gathered up the papers on his desk into a neater pile and exhaled loudly in exasperation. Richie was used to provoking this response in people, and so was almost immune to it. 

It was a bright day outside Steve’s office. Richie could be sitting by his pool, having breakfast and reading the news. Instead, he was the news.

“I’ve booked you into rehab.” Steve said, holding up his hand to stop Richie’s protests. “If you want to keep working with me, you’ll go. If you don’t go, we’re done. I’ll handle the press, work out a come-back strategy. I will help you through this, but only if you get clean.”

***

Richie didn’t like therapy, but individual and group sessions were mandated at the rehab facility. 

Richie had been taken in by the brochure. Naively, as it turned out. He should have known better; he wasn’t a rehab virgin. The facility was very Californian. It looked like a high end resort, set in landscaped gardens with high thread-count sheets and restaurant-quality food. Still, there was no lock on the door of Richie’s room, not even in the bathroom, and everything was strictly regimented. They had taken his phone, which did nothing to alleviate his boredom, but at least stopped him reading whatever the gossip blogs were writing about him.

Steve was handling the PR. They’d discussed it before he checked in. Richie’s only request was that Steve make sure he was kept busy when he was due out. Steve was sceptical, which was fair given Richie’s recent unreliability, but promised to arrange things.

He was three weeks in. He’d gone cold turkey on the cocaine, but was still tapering down on the Xanax. They’d prescribed an anti-depressant and had started talking about adding in something more for the anxiety. So much for being drug-free. They said he wasn’t managing his agitation, and was switching between high energy and lethargy, but that was just Richie’s normal. Right now, he felt twitchy and found it hard to sit still. The recurring curse of his childhood.

His therapist had no sense of humour. Every time Richie made a joke, or dodged serious topics, Dr Troy would ask him to think about what he was avoiding and why. It was tediously earnest, but Richie was giving it his best shot, trying to draw on the clarity he’d felt in Derry, the closest he’d ever been to truthful with himself.

Even after three weeks, Richie still hadn’t talked about the real reason for his relapse or the press storm that led him to rehab. He told himself he was working up to it. Instead, he talked about Stan, which was difficult, and about witnessing Eddie’s injury. He talked about reconnecting with old friends and how this had triggered a lot of memories of growing up. 

Troy listened without comment for a while, and then said, “can you talk more about what happened to you as a child? It sounds like you experienced some trauma.”

Oh boy. Troy literally had no idea. 

Of course, Richie couldn’t talk about sewers, werewolves, old photos that started moving or bathroom blood that only children could see, so he chose another truth. “I grew up in a small town in the late eighties. Places like that weren’t kind to people like me back then.”

“People like what?”

“Queer boys.” 

Richie was wise to Dr Troy’s often deployed tactic of staying silent when Richie threw out a nugget of unexpected information. He was waiting for Richie to speak, and no doubt, give up more secrets. It was a good tactic, as Richie could rarely stop himself from filling the silence.

“It’s stupid.” He said. “I spent my adolescence being called a fag. I’ll always be a dirty queer faggot in Derry.” Richie wished so hard for a cigarette or a drink, or something. “It’s not something that I ever wanted to talk about. I guess I don’t have a choice now.”

“You always have a choice.” Troy said. “I’m sorry that you experienced that as a child, and I’m sorry that you’ve had your choice taken away.”

“The man I killed in Derry...” Richie had to pause to fight down the nausea that overcame him whenever he thought about the axe in Henry Bowers’s head. “He was one of the worst. He was calling me names before I even knew what they meant.”

“And how did you feel when that happened?”

“When I realised I’d killed him, I threw up.” Richie said, not answering the question. “Immediately after.” 

There was another long pause from Troy. Richie tried to wait it out, but ultimately and predictably crumbled. “Anyway, Eddie had been stabbed, and Bowers was literally on top of Mike with a knife in his hand. I just picked up the nearest thing and hit him with it. Turns out, it was an axe.”

More silence.

“I told the police all that. But I didn’t tell them about the rush I felt. I was flooded with adrenaline. I think that’s what triggered the vomiting. Mike was OK, Eddie was bleeding. It was obvious that Bowers was dead. And part of me felt horrified, but part of me was fucking ecstatic. Bowers beat me up a lot when we were kids. Called me every name. It felt a lot like retribution.”

Richie didn’t mention the incandescent rage he’d felt when he’d seen Eddie, bleeding and trembling after his run-in with Bowers. Bowers went there to kill Eddie, to fucking kill him. He might have been ready to commit murder when he caught up with Bowers, even if Bowers had not been trying to kill Mike at the time.

Troy leaned forward. “I’m glad you’re able to talk about what happened recently, Richie. It was traumatic and it’s important that we discuss it. Can we cycle back to talking about how you felt growing up?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard it all before.” Richie said. “Catholic boy, conservative parents, small town. The AIDS epidemic. I must have given off queer vibes or something. I was about eleven when I realised that the names they called me were true. I was a hell bound faggot.”

“That’s not a helpful term.” Troy said.

“I know. I know that now.” Richie said. “But it had an impact.” Another silence. “OK, I pushed it down, repressed my feelings, ignored my attraction to boys. I played heterosexual aggressively. My whole career has been based on it. Eventually, it became easier to carry on than to come clean. But like I said, I don’t have a choice now. I’m going to have to face it.”

“So you’re struggling with your sexuality.”

“If you want to put it like that.” Richie said. Once again, it was almost the truth. He was struggling with his sexuality, yes that was true. But he’d been living in denial for three decades, and hadn’t suddenly been pushed over the edge by his trip down memory lane. Except he had been pushed over the edge, but it wasn’t due to unresolved sexual confusion. Richie knew exactly what, who, had pushed his self-destruct button. It was Eddie, and it had always been Eddie, for him. 

He had made a commitment to straightening (bad choice of words, Richie) himself out. And part of that was being honest with himself, and with the people who were helping him.

“That’s only part of it.” He said. “A big part of my relapse was because I realised I am in love with my childhood best friend. And now that I’ve realised I’ve been in love with him all this time, without even remembering him clearly, I finally understand why everything’s been so fucked up. I’ve been looking for him all these years without realising it.”

Troy didn’t even raise an eyebrow, but he did give Richie a reprieve by saying, “Thank you for sharing that with me. I appreciate how difficult it must be to talk about after being silent for such a long time.”

Richie nodded. God, when was this fifty minutes going to end? He felt flayed open. He couldn’t give any more of himself. Troy took pity on him, and closed the session, saying that they’d talk more tomorrow.

Richie’s afternoon was supposed to be taken up with lunch and a group session. He cried off and hid in his room. Troy must have said something to whoever was in charge of keeping everyone in line, as no-one came looking for him.

So he’d finally said it out loud. 

The world hadn’t changed.

Richie was still the same fucked up mess he’d always been. Turns out, the truth doesn’t always set you free. He felt jittery, like the world wasn’t big enough to contain him. He found his cigarettes and went outside for a smoke.

He was in love with Eddie. 

He knew it was a strange state of affairs, that virtually all of his memories of Eddie were of them as children and teenagers.

He remembered how it felt to be in love with Eddie. Love wasn’t a strong enough word for what he’d felt back then. He felt it must have been obvious, written all over his face when he looked at Eddie, in every elbow in the ribs, in every one-armed hug, every fuck you or your mama joke. It should have been obvious to Eddie, to the others, to the whole world, but somehow it had remained invisible.

He remembered Eddie, who could always find his way, who carried a small pharmacy in his fanny pack, who was a good son to a bad mother. Eddie, who always reacted to Richie’s bad jokes and his voices, Eddie, who could be easily enraged by Richie’s antics and who was the perfect foil to his over-active, out-there, extroversion.

Then there was the summer when he’d turned sixteen, and his love for Eddie burned somehow brighter, sharper than before. He thought he might die for wanting him, and he had fantasised that something had changed, and that Eddie miraculously felt the same. That had been the year when his feelings had spilled out as initials carved into the Kissing Bridge. It was also the year that Eddie moved away.

Did Sonia Kaspbrak get some inkling that Richie was harbouring impure thoughts about her precious son, and whisk him away before Richie could corrupt him? It was a definite possibility. Richie had been devastated. He told himself that it would be different with Eddie, that he’d stay in touch even though none of the others had. 

He’d been wrong. And God, he’d missed him. He knew now that Eddie had forgotten Derry and everything in it, he remembered feeling utterly bereft, until he’d left for college and had forgotten Derry himself. 

And then there was the reunion.

They hadn’t spent enough time together to reconnect as adults and Eddie had been hospitalised and unconscious for most of the time they had been together. He knew on an intellectual level that there can’t have been a real connection, but somehow all six of them had instantly slotted into the roles they’d had as children, and Richie was again immediately defined by his jokes and his burning unrequited love for Eddie.

Eddie had saved Richie’s life in the sewers when he attacked It. He had set Richie free from the Deadlights. It had almost cost Eddie his life. If Eddie had been a few inches to the left, it would have been a fatal blow. It was horrifying and he hadn’t stopped freaking out until Eddie was stable in the hospital. He’d carried Eddie out of the sewers, refusing all offers of help, and he’d sat with Eddie in the back of Mike’s car with his shirt balled up and pressed hard against Eddie’s wound, telling Eddie to stay with him, to stay awake. He’d almost lost his mind. If his feelings for Eddie had been misunderstood by his friends when they were kids, he doubted that anyone who’d seen him that day would have misinterpreted anything. 

Richie lit another cigarette. 

What was he supposed to do with all these feelings?

Adult Richie would bury them or burn them away with drink or drugs. Adult Richie had not known he was missing someone, or who he was missing. But he had known that he was missing something. The void left by his erased memories had followed him through his adult life, it had tainted his relationships, it had influenced who he’d been attracted to, who he’d tried to love. He’d been empty, yearning for something that was always ill-defined and out of reach. He was able to define it, now. He’d been in love with Eddie all this time, and hadn’t even known.

What was he supposed to do with all these feelings?

***

Richie missed Eddie. He’d been able to work through a lot of issues during his time in rehab, he spent all of his waking hours in some kind of therapeutic activity, and Troy said he was making good progress processing his forced coming out. But he’d made no progress on working out how to manage his feelings for Eddie. If he was being honest, and he was trying so hard to be honest now, he was scared that if he tried to process his feelings in therapy, he might find a way to distance himself from what he was feeling. He wasn’t ready to come to terms with the reality that Eddie would never love him back. He’d rather live in pain, loving Eddie, than give up on the idea of him altogether.

Bev wasn’t on his approved list of contacts, so he needed special permission from the centre administrators to get access to his cell phone to get her number. He was allowed to make calls, now, but his cell phone was still off limits. He guessed this was to stop him googling himself or reading unflattering news articles.

He called Bev from the landline in his room. She picked up on the fifth ring, and said hello, sounding suspicious. Richie knew that the divorce from her waste of oxygen husband was not going well, and that she was hiding from him, although she’d never admit to hiding from anyone.

“Hey Molly. It’s me.” He said, lying back on his bed, feet crossed at the ankles.

“Richie? Hi! It’s been ages. How are you?”

“In rehab, still. I’m doing better than I was.”

“Yeah, Mike mentioned you were struggling. I bet you’re in one of those fancy LA rehabs, aren’t you? Drinking green juice and meditating.”

“It’s all yoga and re-aligning my chakras round here.” Richie said. “Are you still in Nebraska?”

“It’s all trees and, well, mud, round here.” She said. “Ben says hi.” Richie heard Ben in the background, before Bev turned her attention back to him. “How are you really?”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about Eddie.” 

“Have you?” Bev said.

“Yeah.” Richie had never rocked a stronger teenage girl vibe than he felt right now. He didn’t know whether to be amused at himself or horrified. Everything felt so much more embarrassing when he was sober. Ridiculous it may be, yet here he was, gossiping about boys with Bev on a landline, of all things. How retro.

“It’s OK to talk about it, Richie.” Bev said gently. 

“I think I love him.” He said.

“Oh, honey, I know you love him. You’ve always loved him.” 

Was Richie really that transparent? He was afraid he knew the answer to that. “What gave it away?”

“You were out of your mind when he was hurt.” Bev said. “If it hadn’t been clear before, it was then. It was almost unbearable to watch when you thought he wasn’t going to make it. It scared me. You looked broken, Richie. I think we all saw it.”

“Everyone except him.” Richie said. 

“Can I give you some advice?”

“Is that a real question, or....”

“I’m being serious, Richie.” Richie could picture her flipping her hair, and had a vivid memory of her as a young girl, wearing a plaid skirt and an ankle bracelet, with scraped knees and yellow bruises on her arms. “You need to talk to Eddie about this.”

“Bev, I can’t...”

“Listen to me.” She said. “I’ve googled you. I know why you’re in rehab. And I know you, Richie. I know how you use words as a shield, but I know how deeply you feel. I’ve got a good idea how it feels to remember everything, I know how it felt to live half a life for over twenty years, and I know how it feels to live a full life now. You’ve got to talk to Eddie. You deserve the chance to live a truthful life, Richie. After everything we’ve done, we deserve it.”

“He’s married, Bev.” Richie could feel the whiny element in his voice, which pretty much confirmed the teenage vibe. He needed to get a grip on his emotions.

“Talk to Eddie.” Bev said.

When Richie had picked up the phone to call her, he’d known she’d give it to him straight. It was Bev, who believed in love, who may have found it with Ben, of course, she’d tell him to call Eddie. 

“OK, Bev. I’ll talk to him. I will. How is Ben? Still rocking that awesome six pack? You’re a lucky lady, Ms Marsh.”

“Beep beep, Richie.” Bev said. “Ben’s good. Things are hard right now, with Tom and the business and the divorce. But I made the right choice. Even if it costs me everything I spent the last twenty years building. And at least I’m not in rehab.”

“You wound me, Molly Ringwald.” Richie said, laughing. “At least you’re not in rehab.”

“Stay in touch, Richie. Things might be crazy, but I’ll always take your calls.”

“Same goes for you.” Richie said. “Thanks Bev. I love you.”

“Love you, too Richie. Get better, and call him.” She hung up.

***

Richie called Bill. Admittedly, this was another act from the teenage playbook. What was wrong with him today? He was acting like a sixteen year old, and was starting to wish that they hadn’t given him his phone privileges back. He wouldn’t be in rehab if he had good impulse control. They should take these things into account when giving privileges to patients.

“Did you know?” Richie said.

“Did I know what?”

“How I feel about Eddie?” Richie said.

“It was kind of obvious.” Bill said. “You need to talk to Eddie.”

“I know!” Richie said. “But I’m in rehab right now, it’s... it’s difficult.”

“I’m here for you Richie, I really am, but you’re talking to the wrong person.” Richie knew this. “And I shouldn’t be the one to tell you this, Richie.” Bill continued. “Eddie’s left his wife.”

***

Richie tried to tell himself not to read anything into the fact that Eddie had left his wife. But he was shut away from every one of his usual distractions, and had so much time on his hands. He was also cursed with a vivid imagination. Richie imagined every possible scenario. 

Maybe, as Eddie remembered his childhood, he realised that he was re-enacting his relationship with his mother. Maybe it was the trauma of his injuries, or a result of struggling to cope with the horror of what they went through. In the dark of night, when Richie couldn’t sleep, he wondered if Eddie had experienced a similar kind of epiphany to Richie. He allowed himself to fantasise about him and Eddie getting together. 

Who was he kidding? Richie really needed to rein in his inner teenage girl.

***

After another twelve weeks, Richie was cleared to leave rehab.

He left with a sponsor, a list of meetings, and a prescription for anti-depressants that were supposed to help manage his anxiety. Steve picked him up.

Richie hugged him. “Hey man.”

“Good to see you Rich.” Steve said. 

On the drive home, Steve talked, but managed to say nothing of consequence. Richie turned his phone over in his hands. He’d been off the internet for nearly four months, and didn’t have the guts to turn his phone on yet.

“How bad is it, Steve?” Richie said eventually, wiggling his phone in Steve’s direction. They were stuck in traffic.

“You’re going to have to completely rework your material.” Steve said. 

“I know that.” Richie said. He was ready to start writing his own material again. 

“You’re going to have to do some talk shows, some interviews.” Steve ignored Richie’s epic eye roll. “And I’ve got some voice work lined up.”

“Just kill me now.”

“Suck it up, Rich.” Steve said. “And you’re going to want to make sure you’re feeling up to it before you go back online. Some of its not pretty.”

Richie nodded, he hadn’t expected anything else.

“But there’s been a lot of support.” Steve said. “Especially if you count the ‘we knew he was gay all along’ crew, as support.”

Richie pocketed his phone. He wasn’t ready for social media yet, and he was already feeling the need to call his sponsor.

***

Two weeks later, Richie stepped off the plane, and made his way slowly through the crowds to baggage claim. The fluorescent lights created a permanent daylight that was disorienting, and Richie regretted the number of coffees he’d drunk through the day and on the flight. He would not sleep tonight.

He pushed his way forward to collect his battered leather tote from the conveyor belt, swung it up onto his shoulder and started walking briskly towards the exit. He was nervous, jittery, and the caffeine accounted for only a small portion of his anxiety. He was about to see Eddie, for the first time since Derry. 

He could use a Xanax. There were times, quite frequently, when Richie hated his new sobriety and wanted to slide back into the comfort of his chemical equilibrium, but Steve had been clear. Richie had used up his last chance, and he would be dropped like a stone if he relapsed again. His career had taken several substantial knocks, and Richie could not afford to lose Steve.

He’d grown used to the whispering that followed him in public, which had intensified since his private life and spell in rehab had been splashed across the internet. He’d never enjoyed being recognised. Richie noted the pair of teenage girls who giggled behind their hands as he passed, but they were too star struck to approach him. He put his head down and pushed his way through the airport.

Richie was in New York to do the Tonight Show. Steve had finally won the battle that had begun before he was even out of rehab. For someone who loved talking, Richie hated talk shows. 

He’d flown in a day early to catch up with Eddie.

So far, they’d been communicating by text message. Eddie had told him he’d left Myra via text, and Richie had commiserated with a sad-face emoji. It was literally the most coherent response he could manage to confirmation of the earth shattering information that Eddie was on his way to not being married any more. 

He knew this was weird. He was talking regularly to all the others, but the thought of picking up the phone to Eddie filled him with an intense anxiety that he’d not been able to overcome. But he couldn’t come to New York without giving Eddie a call. That would be beyond weird, edging towards hostile. 

Richie finally made it through the concourse and through the arrivals gate. Eddie was there, looking pissed. 

“Spaghetti!” Richie called, loudly, slipping into his stage persona. It was a defence mechanism. He’d been in enough therapy in recent weeks to recognise this, but was powerless against it. 

“Fuck off, Richie.” Eddie said, with a frown. He turned his back on Richie, and started walking towards the exit, saying over his shoulder, “you know I hate it when you call me that.”

It was like Derry all over again. No matter whether it was five months or twenty seven years, they just slipped right back into it. 

Richie smiled and used his longer legs to his advantage, easily catching up with Eddie. He threw an arm around his shoulder. “Good to see you, man.” He said. 

He could see Eddie struggle to maintain what Richie had always thought of as his frowny face, before giving up and smiling. “I’m surprised you’re allowed out unsupervised, after what you’ve been up to recently.”

Richie laughed. “Eddie, my man, have you seen Tumblr? All this has made me hotter than ever.”

Eddie scoffed at the idea. 

“You can’t deny it, Eds.” Richie said, falling into his JFK voice. “My recent, ahem, indiscretions have done wonders for my, ah, my public image. I am a hit in men’s bathrooms up down down this great nation.” He nudged Eddie’s shoulder. 

Eddie ignored him and continued walking. Was he going to acknowledge Richie’s excruciating public outing? Richie’s anxiety spiked. What would he do if Eddie rejected him? Get a grip, he told himself. If Eddie was going to reject him, he wouldn’t be here right now. He repeated the mantra his therapist had drilled into him. You are enough. Trouble was, they were still just words.

Eddie had parked his car in the far reaches of the parking lot. He opened the trunk and Richie tossed his bag in. 

Even though there was little traffic, Eddie drove like a maniac. It wasn’t that he took unnecessary risks, it was more like he was deeply resentful of the people in his way. It reminded Richie so strongly of the angry boy Eddie had once been, that his eyes stung for a moment. God, he’d missed him. 

As Eddie swerved out to briskly overtake an SUV that was clearly dawdling, while giving an aggressive honk of the horn, Richie grabbed the grip handle (his dad had always called it the oh-shit handle), and said “Jeez, you drive like a New Yorker, Eds.”

“I’ve lived here for twenty five years, Richie. What do you expect?” 

“Ayuh, you can take the boy out of Maine, Eddie, but you can’t...”

“Beep beep, Richie.” Eddie said. “I don’t want to talk about Derry. Let’s leave that shithole in the past where it belongs.”

Richie nodded. Fair enough. 

They pulled up at Richie’s hotel, and Eddie tossed the keys to the valet with a scowl and a warning. A bell boy took Richie’s bag and whisked it away. 

They walked into the hotel and Richie allowed himself a brief fantasy that they were checking in together. He shut that train of thought down. He couldn’t be thinking like that in front of Eddie. He was too transparent, and would give himself away. 

Instead, Richie walked up to the front desk, smiled at the clerk and handed over his credit card. He got his key card and rejoined Eddie, who’s been hanging back. 

“You could have stayed with me.” Eddie said, “I have a spare room.”

“I don’t want to impose.” Richie said, thinking that it would literally kill him to spend the night in such close proximity. Several inappropriate comments floated into his head, but Richie held his tongue, feeling very accomplished at successfully reining himself in. He changed the subject. 

Eddie insisted on taking Richie for dinner. They ended up in an Italian in Brooklyn, with checked table cloths and wine bottle candle holders and a sense that it had seen better days, probably sometime in the eighties.

“This place is the best.” Eddie said, ordering a steak and a salad. Richie studied the menu, unconvinced, and ordered pasta with a creamy sauce. He enjoyed the sight of Eddie rolling his eyes, no doubt judging his choices. They both stuck to water and Richie appreciated Eddie’s gesture of solidarity, even though it wasn’t necessary.

Eddie talked animatedly about his work, with his hands making each point emphatically and his words tumbling out in a rush. Richie quickly lost track of what he was saying, instead focussing on his movements, the shine in his eyes and the ecstasy of being near him. Eddie paused, evidently expecting a response from Richie.

“Huh?” Richie said, as Eddie looked at him expectantly. “Sorry, I must have zoned out. Were you talking about risk management? Like I said before, was your job invented before fun?”

“You’re still an asshole.” Eddie said, jabbing his fork in Richie’s direction. Richie took this as the term of endearment, which Eddie clearly intended.

“I am still an asshole.” Richie agreed, swirling pasta around his fork carelessly and making a performance of enjoying the food. He had to admit that Eddie was, unsurprisingly, a great judge of restaurants. The food was amazing, even if the venue was tired and unglamorous. He sensed there might be a metaphor there, for his own fucked up life.

They were eating dessert, that is to say Richie was eating tiramisu while Eddie watched, when Eddie said, “What the hell happened in Reno, Richie?” 

Richie had been expecting this. He’d been dreading it. “Long story short,” Richie said, “I hooked up with a guy at a club, someone took pictures and they were published.”

“I know that.” Eddie said. “I have the internet, Richie.” Of course he did. Of course Eddie had seen the pictures. Of course Eddie had witnessed, vicariously, Richie’s utter humiliation. “I meant, the drugs. It sucks that you were outed like that.”

“It sucks balls.” Richie said. “But I shouldn’t have been in the closet in the first place. It’s 2016, for fuck’s sake.”

Eddie’s face scrunched up, and he looked incredibly uncomfortable for a second, “No, I get it, I do.” He said, and Richie thought he heard Eddie’s voice hitch. Then Eddie said, “But what the fuck were you thinking with the drugs, Richie? Do you have any idea what cocaine does to your cardio vascular system, not to mention the risk of stroke.” And his voice was back to normal.

“I get it, Nancy Reagan. Just say no, and all that.” He paused, knowing that things were about to take a serious turn. He looked at Eddie, who was watching him intently, and took a moment to appreciate his brown eyes. “I started using coke again in Derry.” Richie said. “Turns out, everything gets a whole lot worse a hell of a lot more quickly when you mix coke with a booze and Xanax combo.”

Eddie nodded, like he understood. Richie thought he did understand, in a way. Obviously Eddie understood what it was like to face the impossible and live to tell the tale. Eddie probably understood what it was like to wake up from terrible, traumatic nightmares. He probably understood the disorientation of discovering lost memories. 

But Eddie did not understand how it had felt when Richie had realised that he’d been in love with Eddie when they were younger, and that he still loved him. He didn’t understand how it had felt watching Eddie bleeding out in the sewers, or how it had felt sitting in the hospital chair, while Eddie was unconscious after surgery. Eddie didn’t understand how bereft Richie had felt when he’d been dismissed from his vigil by Eddie’s wife. Richie wasn’t going to tell him, or anyone, any of that.

Richie allowed himself to feel all of it, just for a second, before shutting it down. In that second, he marvelled at Eddie’s proximity, how they could be touching if either of them shifted their foot a few inches under the table. He could smell the faint tang of citrus from Eddie’s soap or his shampoo and see the amber flecks in his irises. Eddie’s hands were nimble and expressive, his eyebrows rose and fell with each inflection of his voice. 

He shut it down, like swallowing a bitter pill. This was how it went. He couldn’t have what he wanted. It never worked out that way for him. 

He pushed the remains of his dessert away, felt an acute need for a beer (or a couple of shots), and said “It was Derry. It’s not an excuse - obviously I chose to start back on the Bolivian marching powder of my own free will, but the shit that happened there just got to me.” 

Eddie looked like he was going to start up on the same shit he’d heard from Mike and Bill, that they’d all experienced the same trauma, but only Richie had taken it and turned it into a full-blown breakdown. Richie ploughed on, cutting him off as he started to speak. “It wasn’t just the fucking clown or Stan or the Deadlights. It was the thought of losing all of you all over again, even after everything.” It was the thought of losing Eddie again, Richie knew, but could not say. Richie recognised the irony in his statement. 

Eddie clearly decided to give Richie a break. He said, “I get it, Richie. It’s been hard for me too.” 

Richie nodded. “It’s been difficult, these last few months. I bombed on stage - forgot my own name and half of my material - the night Mike called. That show was a big deal, Eddie, it was being recorded for Netflix. I can’t believe I fucked up so spectacularly. Then I disappeared for two weeks, when I was was caught up in a self-defence homicide, and a few months later, I get caught with my pants down, almost literally. Oh, and now everyone knows that I’m a flaming homo.”

“Don’t call yourself that, Richie.” Eddie said, his eyebrows doing a complicated angry but concerned series of movements. 

“And now I’m out of fucking rehab, and I know that if the sobriety doesn’t stick this time, my career options will be limited to a choice between flipping burgers at MacDonalds or at Burger King.”

“You could always work for me.” Eddie said, and Richie thanked God for Eddie’s black as midnight sense of humour. “I could use a file clerk.” 

Richie howled with laughter. “Eddie Spaghetti gets off a good one!” He said, trying to catch his breath. Eddie laughed along with him, and boy, wasn’t it a great feeling to make Eddie laugh. 

They talked about less loaded topics for a while, until Eddie noticed the waiters were ostentatiously removing table cloths and wiping down surfaces, which Richie took to mean they needed to leave. He got the tab, ignoring Eddie’s protests and they left. 

As Eddie was driving, with the same intense sense of being in competition with every other road-user, Richie, held tightly to the “oh-shit” handle and allowed himself to think about how this would end. 

He would go back to LA, focus on his career and wait until the memory of Eddie faded. 

Richie wasn’t convinced the memory would fade. Thanks to all the therapy in rehab, and the amount of time he’d spent looking at the photos of Harvey, he was finally self-aware enough to recognise that he’d been trying to fill an Eddie-shaped hole in his life all this time. Harvey looked a little - be honest Richie - he looked a lot like Eddie, and Richie definitely had a type. Short, dark hair, brown eyes and with a feisty confidence. Even the women he’d dated fitted the profile. 

One thing was certain. He would never tell Eddie.

God, he was stuck. 

He looked out of the window, unable to look at Eddie, certain that his face was stricken. He watched the city streak past. 

“How did you know?” Eddie said, making Richie jump.

“How did I know what?” he said.

It turned out Eddie wasn’t giving Richie a break after all. He was just biding his time.

“That you’re gay.” Eddie said.

Oh boy.

“That’s a very personal question, Mr Kaspbrak.” Richie said in a Southern gentleman voice.

“I’m being serious, Richie.” Eddie said. “Tell me to fuck off, if you want, I know it’s none of my business, but I’m asking genuinely. How did you know?”

“I’ve always known.” Richie said, looking straight ahead at the red lights of the car in front. He could feel Eddie listening intently. “You can imagine what kind of names I called myself. You know what it was like back then. It wasn’t something anyone spoke about, but the bullies certainly saw, and I guess I spent far too long trying to prove them wrong.”

“I didn’t see.” Eddie said.

Richie laughed. “I know you wouldn’t have judged me - none of the losers would have - but I was judging myself. You just saw me as I was, Eds. The best Street Fighter player and a weirdo loser with bad voices. And I saw you as you were, a weirdo hypochondriac germophobe loser.”

Eddie laughed along with him, but Richie knew him well enough to know he was turning something over in his mind. They pulled up to the hotel, and Richie hopped out of the car.

“Find an excuse to come to LA, Eds, and I’ll show you around town.” Richie said, leaning into the driver’s window. “I’ll show you a good time, man.”

“Bite me.” Eddie said. “Seriously Richie, stay in touch.”

Richie ruffled Eddie’s hair. “I will, Eds. I’ll send you so many emoji filled texts, you’ll be thoroughly updated on all my shenanigans. You do know what emojis are, don’t you?”

“Fuck you.” Eddie said, and his window started to close. 

“It’s OK, Eds, I get it, emojis are too modern for you. I promise I’ll send texts with words.”

“Good luck tomorrow.” Eddie called as his window closed completely. 

Richie watched as Eddie drove off, and turned back to the hotel. Somehow he felt lonelier than ever.

***

Fallon was excruciating. On stage, Richie was charming and funny, riffing with Fallon and playing to the audience, who seemed to find him hilarious.

Fallon asked him about coming out, of course, but had been warned by Richie’s PR to say well clear of the topic of rehab. Thankfully, Fallon seemed to be equally interested in talking about how he’d unearthed Richie’s friendships with Bill, Ben and Bev; the famous author, architect and fashion designer. 

Somehow, a photo of them together as adolescents had been dredged up, and was blown up on the big screen behind them. Richie twisted to get a look at it, as the audience laughed - no doubt at Richie’s haircut and the fact that his glasses were held together with scotch tape. 

There were six of them in the picture, and Richie assumed it was Mike behind the camera. It was taken outside the Aladdin on a sunny day, probably early summer. Most likely 1989 or 1990. Bill was holding Silver, with Ben, Stan and Bev clustered around him, smiling and clearly posing for the photo. Richie’s arm was slung over Eddie’s shoulder, and he was looking directly at the camera. He could tell that the image had captured him mouthing off, judging by his expression and the sense of motion in his pose. The camera had also captured Eddie perfectly. Eddie, who was wearing his fanny pack and a pair of shorts, and who was looking up at Richie like he had hung the moon.

Richie’s breath caught in his throat. How had he never seen this picture before? How had he never seen Eddie looking at him like that before?

Fallon asked him a question, evidently angling to get some witty commentary about how a small city in Maine had produced such a glut of successful people. Instead of supplying a funny anecdote, Richie lost control of his mouth and said, “Oh boy! Look at that! Check out the shorts on that cutie ladies and gentlemen. God, I was so in love with him, and he even never noticed.”

Oh shit.

He regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth. 

Everybody would be watching this. 

Oh shit!

Richie covered up his unease with a joke about being the least successful, and worst dressed, member of the band and told an anecdote about Bill getting a C- in English class because he refused to follow the composition rules the teacher had set.

He asked the producer for a copy of the photo.

***

He had hundreds of notifications on his phone after the show aired. About forty messages were in the Losers’ group chat; there was one from Steve, which was just a thumbs up emoji; and a ridiculous number of mentions on Twitter. He might even be trending. 

There were some texts from Eddie. Richie’s stomach plummeted, and he felt a rush of nervous energy that surpassed, by some measure, the pre-stage jitters he’d had earlier. He sat down and mentally braced himself. If Eddie was pissed off - or worse, if he was grossed out - Richie would have to do some serious damage control. He’d decided he would play it as a huge joke, part of his not-to-be-taken-seriously stage persona, but he was certain that he wouldn’t be able to pull it off. 

Richie ignored all of the other notifications, and opened Eddie’s texts. 

There were three in a row. 

The texts said, ‘Fuck, where did they find that?!’ referring, Richie assumed, to the photo. 

Several minutes later: ‘You got it wrong. It was you who never noticed, and I was always looking at you like that’. 

And thirty minutes after that, ‘We need to talk. My apartment. Tomorrow 8pm.’

Oh boy. 

***

Eddie opened the door. 

Unprecedentedly, Richie was lost for words. He stood on the doorstep, wishing he had paid more attention to his appearance. Eddie was still dressed for work, albeit slightly rumpled, with rolled up shirt sleeves, no tie and messy hair. Even so, he was still roughly ten thousand times hotter than Richie, in his usual black jeans and a loud printed shirt. 

It was hard to read Eddie’s expression. Richie guessed it was somewhere between happy and terrified. Richie wouldn’t be surprised to hear that his own face was doing something similar. Then Eddie cracked a genuine smile, and he stepped back to welcome Richie into his home. Richie relaxed. A little. 

Eddie’s apartment was modern, light and - to Richie’s mind - excessively clean. He kicked off his sneakers in the hall and followed Eddie into the kitchen. 

Eddie poured himself a coffee. “Can I get you anything?” He said. Richie shook his head. 

Standing there, in Eddie’s kitchen, Richie could see evidence of Eddie living a real life, which simultaneously cracked his heart wide open and cranked his anxiety up to eleven. There was a pot on the stove, evidence of food prep in the sink, a copy of the Wall Street Journal on the counter and a cluster of vitamin pill boxes in a spice rack. The kitchen smelled like fresh brewed coffee, basil and oregano. 

Richie still hadn’t spoken. Which was both socially inept and probably a personal record. He sat at the kitchen island opposite Eddie, and said, “So this is getting awkward, so I’m going to jump right in.” Eddie raised an eyebrow and sipped his coffee, Richie continued, “You have a weird predilection for using full punctuation in your texts.” Richie waggled his phone at Eddie to emphasise his point. “Are you aware that it makes you look eighty years old?”

“Fuck you, dickwad.” Eddie said, “I care about the English language. Some people don’t want to come across like a sub-literate teenager.”

Richie clutched his heart, fluttered his eyelashes and said in his Southern Gentleman voice, “He called me sub-literate. Consider me wooed.”

Eddie laughed. 

Richie slipped into his Vincent Price voice and made an inane joke, Eddie laughed again. Richie allowed himself a moment of simple joy at having Eddie’s undivided attention and felt the rush of hearing him laugh. 

Eddie had served lasagne and they started eating. “Did you mean what you said on the show?” Eddie said, holding eye contact, with his elbow on the counter and holding a forkful of salad. 

Richie always knew Eddie was courageous, and here was more proof. Not that he needed it. He felt a momentary anger at all the people who had made Eddie feel timid. 

Richie knew he was trapped. If he deployed a voice, or made a joke or even if he allowed his stage persona to take over, then Eddie’s courage would evaporate and the moment would pass, and Richie would never know if there had been a chance for him and Eddie. The thought of missing this chance and never knowing was too much. Richie felt his anxiety spike, and felt his palms get clammy. He took a mouthful of lasagne, barely tasting it. 

If Eddie could be brave, then so could he. “I did mean it.” He said. 

“What did you mean?” Eddie sent gently. 

“You know.” Richie said. Eddie fixed him with an unimpressed look. “Ok, Ok. Don’t look at me like that. Jesus, do you want me to spell it out?” Eddie didn’t say a word. Richie knew he had to do it. He had to spill his guts and he had to do it now. He took a breath and said. “I was in love with you, back then. And I think I might be in love with you now.”

“Fuck.” Eddie said. He pushed his plate to one side, and ran both hands through his hair. “Jesus Richie, why didn’t you say something?”

There were so many reasons. Back then there was Derry, Eddie’s mother, the fear of provoking disgust and a serious amount of internalised homophobia. More recently there had been Richie’s mental state, being closeted, and Eddie being married to a woman. 

Instead, he said, “I was too scared. And you were too married.”

Eddie laughed, but it was a brittle sound. “I know.” He said. 

“Did you mean what you said in your text?” Richie said. 

“I did.” Eddie said. “God. Would you mind if I have a drink?” Richie nodded, and Eddie took a bottle of wine from the fridge and poured himself a glass, taking a large sip as he sat back down. “I’m still astonished that you never noticed. That photo on Fallon pretty much summed me up from the ages of thirteen to sixteen.”

“Seriously?” Richie said. “How did I not see that? I guess we were both clueless and closeted back then.”

“We’re still clueless, Richie.” Eddie said. 

Richie had stopped eating. They were still sitting opposite each other at the kitchen island. Eddie was cradling his wine glass in one hand and his other hand was propping up his chin. He looked soft, unguarded. Richie was holding his own hands still under the counter. This was a tactic to stop his hands broadcasting his anxiety, and also to stop him reaching across the island to Eddie.

He could feel the crescents of his nails making indents in his palms. He desperately wanted to touch Eddie, to find out if his hands were as soft as they looked, and was actively fighting the urge to reach over. Richie had a flash of memory, of Eddie climbing into a hammock in their underground clubhouse, and sprawling next to him, uncaring of Richie’s personal space. Richie had almost burned up with a heady mix of desire and embarrassment, which he’d covered up, in typical fashion, with a smart mouth comment. He wanted to be touched by Eddie, easily and without fear, like Eddie had touched him back then. 

He wasn’t sure if they were on the same page. Eddie hadn’t actually said anything definitive about wanting Richie like that. Eddie may have had feelings for him as a teenager, but he could still be straight. He could be asexual. He could be gay but still not interested in Richie. God, who would be interested in a mess like him?

Richie could feel himself spiralling. 

For the second time that evening, Eddie was the braver of the two of them. He finished his wine and poured another glass, and said, “I don’t know where this is going, Richie, and I know we’ll figure it out, but I need to tell you a few things first.”

Richie didn’t trust himself to speak, so he nodded.

Eddie continued. “I married Myra six months after my mother died, and I knew what I was doing when I proposed. I knew Myra would take care of me. She anticipated what I needed, and she tried her best to give it to me. And like my mom, she thought she knew what I needed better than I did. It wasn’t healthy.” Eddie’s eyes were sad, and Richie thought maybe his hands weren’t quite steady. “I did love her. Just not in the right way. When I asked her for a divorce, she understood why. She deserves to be with someone who loves her properly, doesn’t she?”

“You both deserve that, Eds” Richie said.

“When we came back to New York, after they let me out of the hospital, something had changed. I was remembering...I was remembering everything.” Eddie paused, and then said quietly but with conviction, “I was remembering you.

“And I remembered I was attracted to men generally. I thought I was straight for nearly twenty five years because I forgot I was gay.” Eddie snorted out a little laugh. “You have no idea how ridiculous I feel.”

Richie smiled. “At least you weren’t living a massive public lie, Eds.”

“I was living a lie.” Eddie said. “But that’s not what I’m trying to say.” He paused, taking another sip of wine. “This is a roundabout way of saying that I’m attracted to you, Richard.” 

“And I hope it’s clear that I’m attracted to you, Edward.” Richie said, in a British voice. Why would he use a voice at a time like this? Would he ever get his mouth under control?

Eddie put down his glass and walked around the island. Richie slid off his stool to stand. He liked his height advantage, and he liked the way Eddie was looking up at him. 

Richie finally found a well of his own courage, and leaned down, giving Eddie plenty of space to pull back. Eddie didn’t move, so Richie kissed him. It was a slow glide of their lips at first. Eddie wrapped a hand loosely around Richie’s neck and pulled him down, while pushing him back against the island, and deepening the kiss. Richie had always liked being manhandled, and he felt his pulse skyrocket. Richie’s hands settled on Eddie’s hips. He could taste the wine on Eddie’s lips, and feel the soft, expensive fabric of his pants under his fingers. Eddie pressed in closer, deepening the kiss. 

Eventually, they broke apart. Richie was sure he was grinning like an idiot. “I’ve wanted this since the reunion.” He said.

“I’ve been wanting this since 1990.” Eddie replied, smiling, and pulled Richie down for another kiss.

Richie could feel his blood pounding in his ears. Eddie’s hand slid up his neck and pulled lightly on Richie’s hair. Richie made an embarrassing noise, and tipped his head back. Eddie pressed light kisses to his neck. Oh God, Eddie was going to ruin him.

Eddie pulled back, and said, “Your stubble feels different.”

Richie’s higher brain functions were so far offline that it took him several moments to conclude that it was different because Eddie had never kissed a man before. He felt overwhelmed. He wasn’t sure his range of emotion was big enough to encompass what he was feeling, but he leaned into it, trying to embrace it. His legs were trembling and he felt like a freshman at the homecoming dance. Richie pulled Eddie’s hips closer, kissing him hard, and caught his back painfully on the counter top. He winced.

“My bedroom.” Eddie said, stepping away from Richie, taking his hand. He pulled Richie behind him, through the apartment to his bedroom. Richie had time to notice that the room was super neat, just like the rest of the apartment, and that it was decorated in greys and blues. Then Eddie was kissing him again, and the backs of his legs hit the mattress. He sat down, and fell back onto his elbows. Eddie climbed into his lap, straddling his hips, and kissed him again. Richie’s hands found Eddie’s ass. 

Richie wondered if this was moving too fast, if Eddie was ready, so soon after his separation. It occurred to Richie that he didn’t know if Eddie and Myra were divorced yet, and it occurred to him that he could be taking advantage of Eddie at a point of vulnerability in his life.

“Are you sure about this, Eddie?” Richie said, tearing his lips away.

“Fuck you, Tozier.” Eddie snapped, although the impact of the tone and the words themselves was diminished as Richie watched, mesmerised, as Eddie unbuttoned his shirt. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t sure.”

“OK, that’s cool.” Richie said.

Eddie pulled off his shirt, and tossed it to one side. Richie was shocked by the prominent red scar that marred Eddie’s chest, about two inches below his right collar bone, and recalled with horrific clarity how Eddie had come by that particular injury in the Derry sewers.

Instead of drawing attention to the scar, and to distract himself from a potential panic attack, Richie trailed his fingers over Eddie’s well defined abs. “Look at this! Scrawny little Eddie Kaspbrak got ripped!” 

“Some of us go to the gym, Richie.” Eddie replied, leaning into Richie’s touch. 

“I could go to the gym.” Richie replied. Eddie scoffed a little. “OK, I don’t go to the gym.” 

Eddie shivered a little as Richie continued touching his bare skin, and then gasped as Richie used his height advantage to roll them both over, so Eddie was flat on his back, and Richie was kneeling over him. Richie’s mouth trailed kisses from Eddie’s neck, across his collar bones, and to his nipples, which hardened at the touch of his lips. He loved the little sounds Eddie was making, and decided in that moment, that he’d be happy if he could make Eddie make those noises every day for the rest of his life. He kissed down Eddie’s torso, over his delicious abs, to his belly button and down the trail of fine dark hair that led into his pants. Eddie’s skin was soft, and lightly tanned. Richie liked the contrast of his pale hands against Eddie’s darker skin.

Eddie’s hands were in Richie’s hair, pulling gently.

“You’re wearing too many clothes.” Eddie said, and Richie sat up and shrugged off his shirt and tee. His body wasn’t in such good shape as Eddie’s, but he swam most days, and Eddie certainly didn’t look like he found shirtless Richie unappealing. He unbuttoned his jeans, as they were becoming uncomfortably tight, and pushed them off. He straddled Eddie’s hips again, aware that his erection would be unmistakeable in his boxers.

They made eye contact briefly.

Eddie moved to unzip his pants, but Richie knocked his hands away. “Let me.” he said, running a hand over the front of Eddie’s pants, feeling the hard line of Eddie’s cock through the fabric. Eddie’s head tipped back, with a groan, and his hips jerked. Richie lowered Eddie’s zipper, and pulled his pants down and off. 

Eddie was a vision, laid out below him. His hair was rumpled, and his skin was glowing with a fine sheen of perspiration. There was a fine dusting of hair on his chest, and a darker, more defined trail of hair leading into his boxers. His eyes were tightly shut, and his breathing was a little ragged. Richie ran his hands up Eddie’s thighs, feeling the scrape of coarse hair under his palms, and slid his fingers under Eddie’s shorts. 

“Oh God, Richie, just touch me, please.” Eddie said.

“I am touching you.” Richie replied, running his hands up Eddie’s torso slowly. It was intoxicating to hear Eddie beg to be touched. Richie might have found a new addiction.

“Touch my cock, Richie, please.” Eddie said. “I’m going to die of sexual frustration if you don’t put your hands on me.”

Richie briefly considered making Eddie wait, considered drawing things out, considered trying to make Eddie incoherent with lust. But he was close to incoherence himself, and wasn’t sure how long he could hold off embarrassing himself, so he pulled Eddie’s shorts down, took a moment just to look, and then wrapped his hand around Eddie’s cock. Eddie’s hips jerked upwards, and he started chanting “oh god, oh god, oh god,” under his breath, as Richie stroked him loose and slow.

“Can I use my mouth?” Richie whispered.

Eddie’s eyes flew open, and he propped himself up on his elbows, giving Richie a burning hot look. “I want to say something clever about putting your mouth to good use for once, but my brain’s not working properly.” Eddie said. 

Richie raised any eyebrow. “Is that a yes?” He said, tightening his grip and stroking faster. “I’m all about enthusiastic consent, Eds.”

“Yes. Yes, please use your mouth, Richie.” Richie ducked down, and took the tip of Eddie’s cock into his mouth. “And don’t call me .... ah.” Eddie’s complaint was cut short, as Richie sucked lightly, and stroked his tongue over Eddie’s frenulum. Eddie’s cock was flushed red and jerking in Richie’s mouth. 

Richie could see Eddie watching him, propped up on his elbows. Eddie’s face was flushed almost as red as his cock, and his hair was in disarray. Richie sucked harder, sliding his mouth down lower, and pressing his tongue on the underside of Eddie’s cock. Eddie was a good size, and Richie didn’t have a massive amount of experience of sucking cock, believe it or not. He couldn’t take it all in, so he used his hand to stroke the base, while his mouth alternated between moving up and down the shaft and sucking lightly on the head. He could taste the tang of citrus soap on Eddie’s skin, and feel the silky weight of him on his tongue. 

Eddie’s legs were trembling, and his hips were straining upwards. His mouth was open, and he was making small, cut off, noises. Little ah, ah, ahs that sounded like poetry to Richie. Eddie’s hand found Richie’s hair again, pulling on the loose curls. The pressure of Richie’s own arousal bloomed like a weight in his pelvis, and he felt his erection throb, as if Eddie’s hand in his hair had a direct line to his cock. He tried to focus on making this good for Eddie.

Richie continued to suck and lick his way up and down Eddie’s shaft, using one hand to hold his hips still and the other to stroke the parts of Eddie’s cock that his mouth couldn’t reach. Eddie tugged on Richie’s hair, and said, “I’m - ah - so close.”

“Do you want to come in my mouth?” Richie said. “It’s ok if you do. I want it.” Eddie looked shell-shocked, with wide eyes and flushed skin, but he nodded. Richie dipped his head, and took Eddie back into his mouth. 

Eddie’s hips started rocking forward and back, fucking lightly into Richie’s mouth, while holding tightly onto his hair. Richie tried to relax his throat and breathed through his nose, sucking hard, using his tongue where he could, and using his hands on Eddie’s hips to urge him forward. Eddie’s trembling increased, and he went rigid, before Richie tasted the sour flavour of Eddie’s come on his tongue. Eddie’s hips sank back onto the bed, and his grip in Richie’s hair went gentle, stroking the back of his head.

Richie spat into a tissue, and threw it towards a waste basket as he watched as Eddie came down from his orgasm. 

“No-one’s ever done that for me before.” Eddie whispered.

“What? Never?” Richie was incredulous. 

“Never.” Eddie said.

Richie was struck with a sense of overpowering insecurity. “Was it good?” He said.

Eddie nodded as he twisted and pushed Richie down, propping himself up on one elbow, as Richie lay flat on his back. “Take your shorts off.” He said. Richie squeezed his eyes shut, getting a rush of arousal from the sound of Eddie’s voice issuing commands, and complied with Eddie’s request. He could feel the weight of Eddie’s gaze, even though his own eyes were closed, and tried to see himself through Eddie’s eyes. He was tall and thin, but softer than Eddie, broader across the shoulders, and paler, even though he lived in California. Eddie stroked his collar bones softly, and ran his hands across Richie’s shoulders. He leaned down to kiss behind his ear, a spot that always got him revved up. Richie’s hips jolted, involuntarily. 

Eddie wrapped a hand around Richie’s cock, and pumped it a few times, whispering, “Is this OK?” 

Richie nodded. “It’s so good, Eddie, please don’t stop.” He got the sense that Eddie was feeling his way through a new experience. He changed his grip and pace several times, driving Richie almost to the brink of orgasm and back. Richie eventually showed Eddie how he liked it, using his own hand over Eddie’s for a few strokes. “Like this.” He said. Eddie was a fast learner. He was also a terrible tease. He continued taking Richie right to the brink, until Richie literally couldn’t take it any more. He begged. “Please let me come, Eddie, oh god, please.” Eddie tightened his grip on Richie’s cock and pumped a few times with the rhythm Richie had showed him. Richie could feel his balls tightening, and his stomach muscles jumping. Every muscle in his body tightened, before snapping into relief as he came. Eddie’s pace slowed through the aftershocks.

“We need to do that again.” Eddie said, smiling down at him, before pulling Richie up for a slow post-orgasmic kiss. Richie wondered if Eddie could taste himself on Richie’s mouth. 

Richie lay back. “You’ll need to give me a couple of hours.” He said. “We’re not seventeen any more.”

“I would have loved to do that when we were seventeen.” Eddie said, trailing his fingers across Richie’s chest. “Or when we were twenty five. We’ve wasted so much time.”

Richie reached over and cleaned himself with some tissue. ‘We didn’t waste time.” He said. “We lost time. It’s not the same. Things would have been different if we hadn’t forgotten each other.”

“I know.” Eddie said. He kissed Richie quickly. “I need a shower.” 

Eddie got up and went to the bathroom, leaving Richie in his bed. Richie liked being in Eddie’s bed. He sprawled out and pressed his face into the pillows that smelled like Eddie. 

Twenty minutes later, Eddie came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist and towel drying his hair. “Are you staying?” he said. “I mean, I want you to stay.”

“I’ll stay.” Richie said. “I want to stay. I need to check in with Steve. He’s keeping me on a short leash.” He got up, reluctantly, pulled on his jeans and t-shirt, and fished his cigarettes out of his pocket. “Can I smoke on the balcony?” Eddie nodded.

Outside, the air was cool and the sound of traffic on the street below was punctuated with sirens. Richie lit a cigarette and took a long drag. He called Steve.

Steve picked up quickly. “Hey Rich.” He said. “How’s New York?”

“The same, Steve.” Richie said. “I think I might stay for a couple of days.”

“Why?” Richie could hear the suspicion in Steve’s voice.

“I’m at a friend’s.”

“Which friend? For God’s sake Rich, you’ve been out of rehab for two weeks. You’d better not be going off the rails again.”

Richie felt a spike of irritation, which he knew was unjustified. Steve had every right to question Richie, given his behaviour recently. He crushed his cigarette out. “Cool it, Steve. I’m fine. Eddie’s an old friend. From Derry. We’re just catching up.” 

“Don’t forget what happened last time you had a reunion with your childhood friends.”

“This is different.” Richie said. “I won’t be at the hotel tonight. I’m staying at Eddie’s.”

“You need to be back for the voice work next week.”

“OK. I’ll be back. I promise.”

Richie hung up and lit another cigarette. He could see Eddie, now dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, walking between the bedroom and the kitchen. Richie felt a swell of affection that was almost overpowering.

Eddie was loading the dishwasher when Richie came back inside. Richie sat back down at the island. “Can we talk?”

”Sure.” Eddie said, wiping his hands on a dish towel as he sat next to Richie.

Richie took a deep breath. For someone who made his living with his words, Richie found it incredibly difficult to talk sometimes. This was why he used writers. “I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.” He said eventually. 

“It’s not a one time thing, Richie.” Eddie took his hand. “I’ve been missing you for too long for this to be a one-time thing. I’m in this one hundred percent, dumbass.” He kissed Richie.

“I’m needed back in LA in a couple of days. I’m doing some voice work. It’s an animation about pigeons.’

For some reason, Eddie found this so hilarious, he almost laughed himself off his stool.

***

Richie woke the next morning with Eddie’s hair in his face, with an arm pinned under Eddie’s shoulder and his morning wood pressing up against Eddie’s thigh. He shifted awkwardly, pulling his hips away, so his erection wasn’t inadvertently assaulting Eddie while he slept.

It had been years since Richie had woken up with anyone.

He could see Eddie waking, coming up slowly from what looked like a deep sleep. He shifted position, and Richie took the opportunity to release his arm, and wrangle his glasses off the bedside table. He could get used to this. He could imagine waking up with Eddie’s hair in his face every morning. He was smitten.

Richie’s mind was like a rat in a trap at times. He literally couldn’t stop his thoughts ricocheting from one thing to another. Case in point, his mind bounced from thoughts of Eddie’s hair to thinking about New York to how new and fragile his recovery was at that point, and what if he relapsed? Would that be a deal breaker for Eddie? Last night, Eddie had said he was in this for real, but what did that mean?

He realised Eddie had woken up and was watching him. “Are you freaking out right now?” Eddie said. “It’s too early for a freak out, Richie. At least wait until we’ve had coffee.”

“I’m not freaking out.” 

“Yes you are.” Eddie pulled Richie on top of him and kissed him. “I can help take your mind of it, whatever it is. But I need to go to the bathroom first.”

Richie watched Eddie walk to the bathroom. When he came back his breath was minty. Eddie straddled him, sitting on his thighs and said “What’s going on?”

“I’m freaking out.” Richie said. “It’s just what my brain does.”

“Mine too.” Eddie said. “I’m currently freaking out that you’re freaking out. Are you having second thoughts about this?”

“No!” Richie said, stroking Eddie’s thighs, and finding the contact helped him feel more grounded and calmed his anxiety. “No second thoughts.“

“But you’re worried about what it all means?” Eddie said.

“When did you get so insightful?” Richie said.

“I’ve been in therapy for twenty years.” Eddie said. “It’s been helpful.” Eddie took Richie’s hands, and threaded their fingers together. ”I want to take a chance, whatever that means. I know we live three thousand miles apart, I know that I’m still legally married, I know I’ve only just realised I’m gay. And I know this is new, and that I should probably be playing it cool. I get that I’m breaking the dating or hook-up rules, and I hope I’m not reading this wrong, but I feel like we’re picking up where we left off. Like we should never have been apart in the first place.”

“I feel that.” Richie said. “My life is total chaos at times. I’ve got to rebuild my career now that I’m out of the closet, I’ve got to stay sober - and you need to understand I’ve only been out of rehab for two weeks and my recovery is still fragile - do you think you can handle all of that?”

Eddie laughed. “If anyone can, I can.” Richie knew this was as true as anything he’d ever heard. Richie surged up and kissed him, tangling his fingers in Eddie’s hair, and feeling the scrape of Eddie’s stubble against his own. “We can start over.” Eddie said, punctuating each word with a featherlight kiss. 

“Let’s do it.” Richie said. “Let’s start over, together.”


End file.
